


Runaways

by Molly



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M, Popslash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In which Chris and Lance attempt to run away from home with a debatable degree of success.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaways

"Are you packed?"

"No," Chris said, letting sarcasm drip down the word like ice cream down a cone. If the ice cream were made of battery acid and the cone were made of something Jaws could chip a tooth on. "We're leaving in--" he checked his watch; 3 am. "--in an hour, you paranoid freak. Of course I'm packed. I've been packed for days."

"Fuck, Chris, you haven't even started. I can't believe -- okay, you know what? Fuck it. We'll buy you something to wear when we get there."

"You're a very cynical man, Lance."

"I'm coming over."

The line went dead, and Chris glared at his empty suitcase malevolently. It gleamed back at him with a lean and hungry look, all black suede and style. Justin had bought it for him and spent several hours leading Chris carefully through the owner's manual and pointing out all the interesting little compartments. It repelled dirt and lint and apparently other suitcases because it hadn't been scuffed once in two months of hellish travel. Justin said the leather was treated with special chemicals; Chris secretly thought it was a snob.

It had wheels and curves and lines. Chris probably didn't have the kind of license he needed to drive it. It was the kind of suitcase that someone like Justin would own, and it slouched against Chris's pillows with an air of deep resentment over its fate.

When Lance arrived, Chris was still staring it down.

* * *

"Are you ready?" Lance brushed past Chris and into the bedroom without waiting for permission, because he was Lance and the room didn't exist that wasn't subtly improved by his presence. Chris followed. He maintained a respectful distance from his suitcase and only took his eyes off it long enough to glare at Lance.

Lance was ready. Of course he was ready. Lance's suitcase had no illusions about its station in life and had been packed and happy since the discovery of fire. It probably had bone necklaces and tanned buffalo skins in it, and on Lance, the look would probably work.

He looked sleek, streamlined by weeks and weeks of brutal training. JC had come back from Houston rambling on about the new geological feature that was Lance, and on first look Chris couldn't disagree. Lance moved like rock moved, though when rock went all fluid and blindingly hot like that Chris was pretty sure they called it something else.

"Chris. Chris!"

Lance was right in front of him. Close enough to touch, and for half a second Chris almost did. His hand twitched a little, then went still, because Lance was for looking. Right. Lance was not for touching.

Right. Chris cleared his throat. "Hey."

"I asked if you were ready!"

Chris frowned. "I think I'm losing time."

"Right. Okay." Lance huffed out a breath and stared at Chris with narrowed eyes. "I'm not going to ask if you told anybody we were leaving, because obviously you didn't even remember we were leaving."

"Of course I didn't tell anybody. Geez, what do you take me for?"

"Not even your mom?"

"My mom has my cell phone number and strict instructions not to use it unless one of my sisters catches fire."

"Not even Justin?"

Chris just glared sullenly, because that was low. Lance knew Chris wasn't speaking to Justin, though this was made considerably easier by Justin never bothering to call. If one of Chris's sisters did catch fire, Justin would only find out if Carson brought it up it in an interview. It made Chris feel a little bitter -- though of course only on his sisters' behalf. They really loved Justin a lot.

Lance didn't accept the glare as an answer. Lance stood there and waited and looked at Chris like he'd be happy to put down roots and take his nutrients from the earth itself until Chris came up with an appropriately negative response.

Lance had really pretty green eyes.

"Chris!"

Chris sighed. "Not even Justin. Did you tell Joey?"

"That would kind of defeat the purpose, now, wouldn't it." Lance grabbed Chris's suitcase from the bed and didn't, Chris was interested and pleased to notice, lose a hand.

"That's empty, you know."

"You'll be buying stuff while you're there."

"So, you're sure you didn't pop in for a little visit to Broadway and tell Joey?"

"Nobody even knows I'm in New York. Not everybody has to be morbidly co-dependent with their best friends," he said, brushing past Chris on the way to the door.

"Not everybody." Chris wouldn't have minded if Lance had lost maybe just a finger. "Just everybody I know."

"What?"

Chris smiled sweetly. "I said, you're the healthiest guy I know."

"Hey," Lance said, looking happy for the first time since he'd arrived. "Hey, thanks."

* * *

Chris had no problem with planes. He was actually really fond of planes. He liked the way the commercial ones were built, with their bullet noses and swept-back wings and appropriately patriotic names and markings. Commercial planes were made to look intense, efficient, and possibly just a little pissed off. United planes especially, if they could be forced to wear bifocals and neckties and perfectly round goatees, would have looked like distant kin to Chris's accountant.

He liked the insides of planes, too. He was small enough that the seats were never really uncomfortable even if they didn't lean back far enough, and the arms had fun knobs and buttons on them, and the tray tables were kind of cool when not in their upright and locked positions. In first class the trays were on the arms and not as fun, but there was free liquor and pretty decent food all things considered, and he was right behind the pilots which felt like a really good place to be. Everything about the inside of a modern commercial airplane gave off restful beige pheromones that inspired confidence and serenity and a vague craving for honey-roasted peanuts.

If hotels were built like planes Chris would stay in one every night, and if planes were attached as firmly to the ground as hotels, Chris would ride one everywhere he went. Things being what they were, getting him into one required medication.

Lance medicated him with vodka in the VIP bar. A lot of it, and for a really long time, until it became clear to Chris even drunk that Lance had lied to him about their takeoff time. Again.

Four in the morning in an airport bar had the potential to be incredibly grim. There were a few red-eyed business men with briefcases and newspapers, a few incredibly bored waitresses, and a bartender who kept falling asleep next to the taps. There weren't any teenagers around to squeal and point, though, not in a bar at JFK at o-fucking-early in the morning, so Chris felt pretty safe letting Lance get him toasted.

There was a space of time when Chris wasn't really aware of anything but the lobe of Lance's left ear. It was a good ear, and a very shapely lobe, and staring at it intently kept him from staring just that intently at Lance's mouth. Then he was moving and he wasn't doing a very good job of it -- too many feet, he thought, before noticing that some of them weren't his. And then he was on the ground and Lance's hands were moving over him and a deep concerned voice was saying, "Chris? Hey, you okay?"

Chris beamed up at Lance, love glowing in his heart. "I love you," he said warmly and reached for Lance's hand.

"You love everybody right now," Lance answered, and tugged.

And wow, suddenly Chris felt tall. It was a very long way down his body to his feet. "I'm reeeeeally tall."

"Autumn in Chrisland," Lance said sadly. "The leaves are fallin' off the trees. Come on, they're boarding first class now."

"Lance. Lance, are we running away from home?"

"Yep."

Chris thought about that for a minute while Lance moved them closer to wherever it was he wanted them to go. "Do we have to do it on a plane?"

The stewardess -- flight attendant, Lance hissed in his ear, they like to be called flight attendants -- was pretty and blonde and French and very amused by Chris. Chris amused everybody, so he expected it. He smiled and winked at her and nearly fell over twice while Lance explained how Chris had been dropped on his head repeatedly as a child. She got them belted into their seats, told them with a charming accent that her name was Sophie-Laure and they should ring for her if they needed anything, and went away. She looked really pretty going away.

Chris was happily playing with the knobs on the arm of his seat when something happened underneath him, something growly and gear-ish and bad. Jolts of adrenaline sped through his blood and hoovered up every molecule of alcohol. He was stunningly, shockingly, startlingly sober and not coincidentally halfway over his seatback when Lance grabbed him by the waist and slammed him back down into his seat. He belted Chris in again and twined his fingers tight with Chris's own.

"It's okay," Lance said reassuringly. "Most planes don't actually crash till _after_ takeoff."

"You need to let me off this plane."

"You need to drink some more."

"No, Lance, you don't understand." Chris tried to get his hand separated from Lance's, but Lance seemed to have sprouted extra fingers. "This was a very bad idea."

"I know. But it was your very bad idea, so we're doing it."

"Since when do we actually do my bad ideas? We never do my bad ideas, because they're bad, Lance! They're really really bad. Now, let's just go home, and we can, um. We can run away to somewhere we can get to on a bus."

"You said you'd say that, back when you weren't all phobic."

"Look." Chris was getting desperate. The air in the cabin was harder to pull into his lungs than it was supposed to be. And it smelled funny. It smelled like places that were really really very high up. "Look. I know I said I could handle it, I know I said you should just ignore me, but I was wrong. I can't handle it. Seriously, man, I can't handle it. Let me out."

Lance smiled gently and stroked Chris's hand. "You said you'd say that, too."

"Oh, God. You're not letting me out."

"Nope."

"You're like some scary pre-programmed death robot! You're gonna make me stay on this plane and the engines will die and we'll crash and we'll be just like John Denver. And we'll be dead!"

"You may be like John Denver. I'm gonna be like Lance Bass, cool dead guy. I bet Justin writes a song about us."

"Why didn't I do this with JC? JC would let me off this plane. JC loves me."

"If JC let you off this plane right now it wouldn't be an act of love."

"It would so be -- what, wait. Why?"

"We took off like five minutes ago, you freak."

* * *

Six hours and fifty-five minutes into the seven hour flight, Chris was feeling pretty good. Good about the flying, anyway -- his blood alcohol levels had soared once again to their previous impressive heights and the ground felt more like distant legend than present threat. There were only a few other people in first class and they all seemed bent on memorizing their magazines before landing. It was all good, the buzz, the anonymity, Lance. Chris was almost happy.

Paris, though. Paris he didn't feel good about. His mental image of Paris had weird pink light, snooty too-strong coffee, and (he wasn't sure why) gargoyles. An out-of-scale Eiffel Tower loomed over all of it like Godzilla, poised to crush the Louvre and snarf up the badly-dubbed tourists on the Champs-Élysées.

Running away from home was a lot easier when home was a place. Like, say, Cleveland. Twenty bucks and a will to live could get a guy away from Cleveland. It got more complicated when home was people, and even more complicated when home was famous people whose movements were governed half by El Niño and half by star signs. Running away from Cleveland could mean someplace interesting and fun, someplace like LA, maybe, or Seattle.

Running away from the J's, though. He should count himself lucky. Paris was just the lesser of many, many possible evils.

Chris thought at first he would be fine if he just avoided all major metropolitan areas, but that left basically farming communities and the left half of Texas. A small, coconut-scented third-world country seemed like a logical alternative, but Lance showed his disdain for that plan by not bothering to show up in Jamaica at all. He had called instead, to say Mississippi was about as third-world as he ever wanted to get again, and that he wasn't running away to any country without at least three international airports and a Starbucks franchise.

Chris's ode to the superiority of Jamaican coffee beans hadn't come close to changing Lance's mind; he was stranded alone in Jamaica for days, drinking coffee with no whipped cream and completely failing to impress Lance's kind of people. Chris had been so mad he'd completely forgotten to let the amateurs win.

The trip to Paris was Lance's whacked version of an apology. Chris had said it as a joke, hey, let's go to France! Only Lance had said, sure, great idea, when? and Chris, well. Didn't really want to go at all. There were three planets and two circles of Hell ahead of France on the list of places Chris wanted to go for Christmas. He actually would have liked to hang with his mom and his sisters for Christmas, but they had assumed he'd have plans and made plans of their own. When he called to make plans with them they were just a set of giggly voices singing _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_, badly, on an answering machine. He could've tracked them down, but it was easier to feel sorry for himself and hang with Lance. Or it had been, until hanging with Lance started requiring passports and transatlantic flights.

So, running away from home was complicated. But even Chris had to admit that it was a lot simpler with Lance sitting beside him, ordering him drinks and holding his hand and quietly making fun of other people's clothes. Lance had room for it -- he was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket with lapels and something under it that looked like it was made of spun gold. Chris -- who was wearing three shirts of different colors and lengths, purple sweats, and a hat he'd swiped from JC -- kept his mouth shut.

"Chris?"

Chris blinked at the hand in front of his face, and kept blinking until it resolved into a non-scary number of fingers. "Hmmm?"

"Chris, you need to buckle up."

"What? No." He didn't need to buckle up, because you only buckled up when the plane was about to attempt something wildly, inadvisably dangerous, like flying through a level five hurricane, or barrel rolls. Or landing. "No, I'm fine."

"If you buckle up, we can land, and then we won't be flying anymore."

"I like flying," Chris said with epic certainty. "I love flying. I love planes."

"Right." Lance grinned, which made Chris grin back. And then he reached for Chris's seat belt, which made Chris snarl and hiss and try to claw Lance's eyes out.

Lance grabbed both of Chris's hands and held them tight. "Trust me."

"Um." Chris's life with Lance to date flashed before his eyes. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because you made me get on a plane and now we're probably going to die and you hate me and no one will ever know what happened to us and we'll fall into the sea and be eaten by sharks."

"We're already over land."

"And because of that time we put candy in JC's ears."

"That was JC! And you helped!"

"Yes," Chris said, nodding solemnly. "But you could turn on me at any time."

Lance let go of Chris's hands, and Chris was suddenly aware of how cold it was in the cabin. Airplanes were always too cold, but without the warmth of Lance's hands, he shivered and pressed back into his seat. Lance just looked at him, not bored and not sneering and not laughing, which were the only things Lance ever really let show. He looked something else, something Chris didn't like. After a second, Chris took a deep breath and returned his seat to its upright and locked position.

"Sorry," Chris said quietly. "I trust you."

Lance reached across and belted Chris in carefully. He took hold of Chris's hand again and pulled it up to his chest. Warm, warm, warm. Chris could feel Lance breathing, slow and steady. It made his own breath come slower, easier, and he squeezed Lance's fingers to say thank you and Lance leaned over and kissed Chris softly on the mouth.

Chris's breath stopped altogether.

"Sorry," Lance said gently. Chris wasn't sure what he was sorry for, the seatbelt or JC's ears or the kissing, but it probably wasn't the kissing because Lance did it again, his lips soft and dry and clinging. The second time took longer, and when Lance pulled back he was dusky pink from his hairline to his chin.

"Sorry," Lance said again, and fastened his own seat belt. So maybe it was for the kissing after all.

Chris tried to breathe, and couldn't. He tried to think of something to say, and couldn't. He tried to worry about the people around him, about who saw and what they might say, but he couldn't do any of it. He just looked at Lance and looked at him and thought all the things he didn't normally let himself think, like how Lance's eyes were so green and wide and different, and how his eyebrows curved over them in such a smooth, sharp way, and how his mouth only turned up on one side when he was being mean but on both sides when he was really happy. It was turned up on both sides now, grinning through the blush.

"Sorry." Lance's grin got wider, and Chris's eyes got narrower, and he said, "Wait. What--"

There was a bump, and a moment of weightlessness and another bump, and a bored voice said something boring in bored French over the speakers and then repeated, in English,

"Welcome to Paris, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for flying Air France. The local time is 5:07..."

* * *

Chris let Lance get their bags, Lance's full ones and Chris's empty evil one and Lance's laptop from the overhead bin where the carry-ons had, in fact, shifted slightly during the flight. Lance had nearly gotten brained by a plastic tacklebox that instead bounced off his shoulder and crashed to the floor, scattering lipstick and eyeliner up and down the aisle. He let Lance herd him through customs and through miles of corridors filled with people on their way to other places. They were in a cab and the airport was shrinking behind them before Chris realized Lance had been speaking French to everyone they met.

He didn't ask about it. He hadn't known Lance could speak French, but if he'd thought about it he could have probably guessed. Lance could do whatever he needed to do. He'd needed to dance to stay in the group, so he'd danced. He needed to speak French to be in France, so of course he could speak French, fluently as far as Chris was able to tell and with only the barest trace of a drawl. Chris fully expected that if their pilot had suffered from one of those mysterious TV-pilot heart attacks, Lance would have whipped out a pilot's license and a First Aid certification, and flown them in with one hand while performing CPR with the other.

So Chris noted the French and filed it away and didn't say anything. And he didn't say anything about the kissing, either, because Lance wasn't saying anything about it -- unless he was saying it in French, to other people. Nobody had so much as looked at Chris so far, so probably not.

But Chris was thinking about it. He was thinking about it a lot. He was thinking, specifically, that he was going to have to call Justin. This was not a situation he felt he could handle on his own.

On his own, he had reached two conclusions:

1) Lance was one devious son of a bitch.

2) Lance's mouth was every bit as nice as Chris would have expected it to be, if he had ever for even a second let himself wonder about it consciously, which he hadn't.

(He hadn't, because if the concept of Lance ever kissing Chris or consenting to be kissed by Chris had been filmed, it would certainly have been marketed as "science fiction". And it would have tanked, because a willing suspension of disbelief only gets an audience so far.)

Okay, three conclusions:

3) Lance was a slut.

It was the only reason he could think of for Lance, who barely tolerated Chris on his best days, to kiss him like that. If Lance would kiss Chris, Lance would obviously kiss anything or anybody. Who knew where else Lance's lips had been? How many friends of a friend of a friend were likely to call _Teen Beat_ with the answer to that very question at any given moment? Chris felt a strong need to call a group meeting for purposes of damage control, and possibly also to disinfect his lips.

Only there wasn't really a group. There was Justin, if you could get through the hundred-foot-deep forest of cables and microphones and flashbulbs surrounding him; there was Joey, if you could get through Briahna and Kelly and the cast and the crew and the reporters and the Rent-heads; there was JC, if you could get through Tony or the fifteen different layers of laid-back or the useless voicemail system. (Press 1 to leave JC a message that will be deleted unheard in fifteen days. Press 2 to disconnect...)

And of course, if you could get through the French, there was Chris and Lance the Ho in Paris. But Chris wasn't stupid; he wasn't counting on either of _them_ for help.

For a while, he just looked out the window. It was drizzling out, and with the overcast, the light was starting to fade. White Christmas lights twinkled in some of the trees along the wide streets and red ribbons hung from some of the streetlamps, but mostly the city seemed to conduct the season with a lot more taste and style than they did back home. The buildings were tall and pretty and weird, some so old they felt alien. It was actually kind of a relief to see cafés and shops scattered along the way, even if they did have names Chris couldn't pronounce. Lance occasionally pointed out buildings and cathedrals Chris had never heard of, and they caught a glimpse of Notre-Dame as they crossed the river. Lance had its entire history on tap and would have happily told Chris all of it if Chris hadn't glared until he stammered and shut up.

Chris was starting to think maybe _he_ should've gone to bus school. He sighed, flipped open his cell phone, and speed-dialed Justin.

After a few seconds, he pulled the phone away from his head and stared at it in shock. A sense of betrayal welled up in his chest and threatened to spill over into a whine.

"Lance."

Lance didn't look up from his newspaper. "Non, on n'est pas encore là."

"Lance, I don't speak French." Chris caught their Arabic cabbie sneering at him in the rearview mirror, and sneered back reflexively. It wasn't like he'd wanted to come to France and be an ugly American riding in an ugly cab with an ugly driver. He'd been tricked.

"No," Lance said, and Chris was disgusted to see him apologizing to the cabbie with his eyes. "We're not there yet."

"My phone doesn't work."

"Hello, you're in France."

"France doesn't have phone service?"

"I know you've been out of the States before, I was with you. Did you get an international plan?"

"I--" Chris paused. Lance was looking at him curiously, and he was going to have to say something, and if he told the truth he was going to have to say that he had no idea what plan he had. He'd just told someone backstage one day to go get him a cell phone. He thought maybe it was Tiny, but he couldn't swear to it. Possibly it was Dre. But if he said that, Lance would laugh at him and say the fame had gone to his head and spend the rest of their...whatever it was... asking him if he'd like champagne with his breakfast and offering to count his sneakers for him.

Chris cleared his throat. "What plan do you have, O Great Phone God of the Pyrenees?"

Lance sighed and handed over his phone. Chris held it and looked at it thoughtfully. He looked at Lance. "I don't suppose you--"

"Justin's ten on speed dial."

"Ah."

"Before you ask, you're six."

Better than Justin, Chris thought, grinning. Score.

"Carson Daly's five."

Chris hit ten so hard he jammed the buttons.

* * *

Justin didn't answer the first time Chris called, or the second time, or the fifth, or the tenth. It was just as well, because Lance was right there beside him in the back of the cab and the things Chris was planning out in his head to say would get him in trouble. He didn't leave any messages because he didn't have any illusions about Justin calling him back. They weren't speaking to each other, after all.

He called again while Lance paid the driver with French money (where the hell did he get that? Did he counterfeit it on the plane? Christ.) and sent him off with a cheery French "au revoir", which was pretty much the only French Chris knew. He called again on the way into the building they'd stopped in front of, but mostly just because it kept his hands occupied so he didn't have to carry any luggage. He called twice from the stairs, again from the even more stairs, and once from in front of their hotel room door.

He blinked when Lance pulled out a key instead of a key card, and retraced their steps in his mind. There hadn't been any bell hop, or any lobby, or any check-in, or any elevators beyond the dank, dingy, one-person, scary elevator that had probably been built circa the Revolution. There hadn't been any tastefully dressed men in business suits or elegantly coiffed women in cocktail dresses and if he checked the beds, assuming there were beds, he bet there wouldn't be any mints on the pillows.

This wasn't a hotel.

Lance opened the door, stepped inside, and set down their bags. He spread his arms wide and turned around to grin at Chris. "Well, here we are!"

Chris looked around the tiny apartment. He'd slept in bigger cars. "Yeah. Um. Here we are."

"What do you think?"

Chris thought he hadn't planned on moving to Paris _permanently_. He thought possibly Lance was on drugs. "It's nice."

Lance beamed. "I love it. Home, sweet home."

Chris's stomach shifted uneasily. He didn't think he had the right visa for this. "You mean -- like, figuratively speaking, right?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, I know we can't stay here year round or anything--"

"Damn straight." Chris nodded vigorously. "We really can't."

"--but nobody would ever expect to see us in an apartment building like this. They'd expect some kind of ritzy hotel, right?"

Chris had kind of been hoping for a ritzy hotel himself. "Right..."

"So, a few months here would be cool, and then we'll go somewhere else. What do you think of New Zealand?"

Chris smiled weakly into Lance's happy, glowing face. He clutched the phone in a tight sweaty grip and squeaked out, "Where's the bathroom?"

* * *

Ten minutes and fourteen calls later, Chris was starting to panic. He was sure Lance would have questions when he finally came out. He nearly fell off the toilet seat when the voice that came on after the click was the real actual Justin Timberlake instead of the fake voicemail voice of

Justin Timberlake's ex-girlfriend's assistant.

"Chris! Finally! How the hell are you guys?"

Chris pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. Lance's. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else was it gonna be?"

"Um, Lance?"

Justin laughed. "Last time Lance called me was like 1997. And he was looking for you."

"Well, but why the hell would I be calling you from Lance's phone? Answer me _that_, Mr. Answerman."

"I don't know! Why the hell are you in fucking Paris?"

Chris's eyes narrowed. "How, exactly, and I really do mean exactly, how did you know we were in Paris? How did you even know we were together?"

There was a buzzy-quiet moment of nothing on the line, and then Justin said, "Oh, hey. How's the Eiffel Tower?"

"How the fuck would I know? I've been here five minutes."

"Oh. Well, how's Lance?"

"That's a very good question." Chris chewed on his thumbnail, then stood up and paced. The bathroom only allowed for two steps lengthwise, so it wasn't really all that satisfying. "How is Lance? How _is_ Lance? Lance, it seems, is having some kind of horrible, I don't know. Brain problem. He -- never mind. Listen."

"I'm listening, yo. Spill it."

"Do you think Lance likes me?"

"Is he being mean? I'll kick his ass for you, Chris, I'll totally--"

"No, he's fine. Just. He's kind of weird."

"Wouldn't be Lance if he wasn't kinda weird."

"Have you noticed him being, how to say this. Sort of a slut? Lately?"

"Lately?" Justin laughed. "What, like, yeah. Have you _met_ Lance?"

Chris hung up and sighed. "Yeah, I thought so too."

* * *

They were too jet-lagged to go out, but the fridge was stocked. Chris wandered into the bedroom while Lance laid out some stuff to munch on. There were two smallish beds with no blankets in the tiny room, and wall of cabinets. He wandered back out a second later, and that was the nickel tour. He sat down beside Lance on the tiny futon sofa and stared at the mountain of food on the coffee table.

Munchies consisted of a few pounds of cheese and a metric ton of bread and several gallons of white wine. Chris counted the different packages of goat cheese and looked up at Lance in dismay. "Are we opening a restaurant?"

"You have to try a lot of them, to see what you like."

"I know what I like. I like cheddar."

Lance sighed. "You can have cheddar any time. Try something different for once."

Chris thought being in Paris was different enough for one day, and really would have appreciated some cheetos and a coke. But he ate the bread and drank the wine, which Lance called "Vine de Table", and tried at least a little of the cheese because Lance kept nodding at him encouragingly, smiling that wide, full-mouth smile, and he couldn't not. He drank some of the kir, which Lance made with white wine and raspberry liqueur, and which was pink and too sweet and didn't go with anything. He ate a lot of the different kinds of spreads, too, duck pâté and strange-tasting olive-y pasty things, and felt once and for all like he really had run away from home. There wasn't a lot that made a guy feel lonelier than weird, unpronounceable food shared with a guy he wasn't supposed to want to kiss.

But he wasn't thinking about that. Not even a little bit. Not even when Lance sighed happily and leaned against him, sipping from his glass and nibbling at his cheese with a look of complete contentment.

When they'd decimated the bread, Lance brought out the chocolate. Maybe it was weird French chocolate, but Chris didn't care; it tasted like chocolate was meant to taste. Chris was definitely behind the concept of chocolate no matter where it came from, and the French were apparently very, very good at it. There was more kir then, and with the chocolate it didn't seem too girly anymore, so he drank enough of it to lose track of what he was drinking and eating and to start talking smack about Justin, which he suddenly felt was the only reason he'd come to Paris.

"He's kind of stupid," Chris said to Lance confidingly. A thrill of meanness raced through him and he grinned. "And self-absorbed."

Lance nodded, and drained his glass. "Stupid," he said firmly. "Vain."

"I hate his hair."

"I hate his shoes."

"And he's forgotten all about us." Chris stared into the bottom of his glass and sighed. "He's breaking up the group."

"Totally fucking it up," Lance agreed. "You want some more wine?"

"He's not talking to me, you know."

"Aww, now." Lance patted Chris's knee comfortingly. "He is too."

"Well, he's talking to me." He was earlier, anyway. In the bathroom. Yeah. Chris held out his glass for Lance to fill, and tried to remember his point. "Justin."

"Yeah?"

"He's -- okay, he's talking to me. But he's not," and he waved his glass wildly in the air between them, "he's not _talking_ to me."

"He's just busy, Chris. He totally loves you."

Chris glared at Lance furiously. "Shut up! He's forgotten about me!"

"Right!" Lance nodded rapidly. "Lost his roots. Bastard!"

"Right." Chris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Right."

"You know who I hate?"

Chris nodded solemnly. "Joey. You totally hate Joey, dude."

"I totally hate Joey. You know how often he calls me now? He calls me like, maybe, two or three times a week. And it's all about 'I shook Patrick Stewart's hand' and 'Briahna can sing the whole score for Cats now, isn't she smart?'. I hate him."

"He's gone darkside on you, man. It's all that 'savior of Broadway' shit. Gone right to his head."

"Used to call me all the time."

"He looks old now. Don't you think he looks old?" Chris pictured Joey in his sweater and his glasses and his new normal hair and perfect goatee. Too fucking adult. "He looks ancient."

"He looks like my accountant."

Or a United 747. "Yup." Chris nodded again. "Mine too."

Lance made a little fluttery wave with his fingers. Chris grabbed Lance's hand and squeezed. Lance squeezed back, and for a few minutes they just sat there, drinking and holding hands and hating their best friends. Chris hadn't felt so good in months.

"I don't look that old," Chris said after a while. He snuck a look at Lance and was relieved to see him nodding. "I'm in my prime."

"You are."

"And you know what? We're adventurers. On an adventure. Right now. Not doing the same old thing. I mean, going solo, that's just like being in a pop group, right?"

"Right!" Lance clinked his glass against Chris's and grinned. "Just, with less people."

"Right!"

"Exactly the same."

"Right!"

"And that Broadway thing," Lance said. "That's just like being in a pop group."

"Only with _more_ people."

Lance nodded and leaned his head on Chris's shoulder. "Right."

Chris sighed pathetically. "Hate them both."

"And JC!"

"JC!" Chris waved his arm emphatically, sloshing wine over his shirt sleeve and Lance's arm and a bit of the sofa. But then he couldn't think of anything horrible to say about JC, or even a little bit tacky, so he just snarled and said in a low, mean voice, "Fucking JC."

"JC," Lance said. His voice was soft and pleasant and cold cold cold. Had they been at the center of a crowded room filled with happily chattering people, everyone of them would have fallen silent in anticipation without quite knowing why. Chris felt a hush move over him but since he wasn't saying anything it didn't really make much of a difference.

But then Lance just drank more and didn't say anything else. So maybe he couldn't think of anything either.

"JC," Chris began, rolling the letters over his tongue slowly. "JC."

"Yeah?"

"JC. Has a really... fucking... huge... head."

"Yeah!" Lance took another drink to toast it. "Dude has an _enormous_ head."

"Dude looks a little too much like his own bobblehead, if you know what I'm saying," Chris said, gulping from his glass and nodding at the same time.

Lance choked and laughed so hard he fell over into Chris's lap. Chris grinned happily and petted Lance's head. He hated everybody but Lance, which was good because they all deserved it, the fuckers, and Lance's hair was warm and sticky with gel under his fingers. Gold and brown, fuzzy and short like fur at the base of his neck, and when Chris rubbed over it with his thumb Lance made a soft, sharp sound of pleasure that went right to Chris's gut. His hand went still and it occurred to him that he'd been drunk since he left New York.

Lance shifted up and put a hand flat on Chris's chest. He still had really pretty green eyes, and they didn't look nearly as drunk as Chris felt, and there was something not quite right about that. But Lance said, "Chris," and it was just a whisper of breath across Chris's skin, and his tongue got to Chris's mouth before his lips did, and whatever it was that wasn't right wasn't important.

Lance tasted like the wine, and like one of the cheeses Chris hadn't really cared for. He pushed and Chris gave, went onto his back and Lance was right there. Right over him. It wasn't like on the plane, because he could feel everything, because Lance's tongue moved slow and hot and easy in his mouth; because Chris had time to kiss back.

He kissed Lance every way he knew how. Soft and sweet; hard and rough. He didn't ever want it to end and he kept kissing Lance until the shock wore off, and a few seconds after, until he remembered why he shouldn't. Lance was shaking above him, coming apart, and Chris turned his head away and gasped for breath and held on while Lance pressed his mouth into Chris's shoulder and said things Chris couldn't understand. Possibly some of it was in French.

Then Lance said, "Chris. Chris," and Chris put his hands on Lance's head and pulled him back up, licked his mouth until it opened on a choked gasp and yeah, Christ, that was good. He pushed up hard and felt Lance's cock digging into his hip, felt Lance shudder and push back, and nothing was going to happen because he was too drunk but God, Lance. Lance.

Chris stopped it: eased down, long licks into Lance's mouth turning into soft, wet kisses. Turning into softer things, and then quiet and still, and Lance holding onto him so tight his ribs hurt in the best possible way.

"Lance?"

"Mmmm."

It wasn't even a sound, just a rumble, and it scrambled what Chris had wanted to say. Probably for the best, because his heart was racing and he couldn't let go of Lance even a little and he didn't trust himself. Even a little. "Jesus."

"'m not talkin' about this now, Chris." Lance pushed up a little, looked into Chris's face, and nodded. He dropped a wet kiss onto Chris's nose and edged over to the side, taking some weight off Chris but not going far away. There wasn't enough sofa to get very far away, and Chris couldn't find the energy to mind.

"Okay." He said it to the top of Lance's head, and felt Lance's nod against his chest. "Then, I'm gonna sleep for a while."

"'kay."

He didn't think he would, really. But then he did.

* * *

Morning sunlight slammed into his eyelids like spikes, and Chris woke up cringing from it like a creature of the night. His head was spinning and ringing at the same time, and Lance was wrapped around him like a friendly anaconda. Chris moved slowly and didn't exhale and managed to wriggle free just in time for the nausea to hit.

He was never drinking again. Not _ever_.

After a few seconds the spinning slowed. The ringing didn't. It seemed to be coming from Lance's feet. Moving carefully, Chris dug the cell phone out from under a throw pillow and flipped it open.

He waited through open air. After a minute JC said tentatively, "Um, Chris?"

He looked at the phone. He frowned. "How do you guys keep doing that?"

"Lance never answers his phone."

"Okay, you know what? Fuck off. What do you want?"

"Hey." JC sniffed loudly. "If you're gonna be that way about it, never mind. I'll just call one of my _friends_. Of the kind who tell me when something huge and major happens in their lives, because they love me and want to share. That kind of friend. Not that I'm not happy for you. But you suck."

Chris sighed and pressed his fingers together between his eyebrows, right where it hurt the most. JC made even less sense than usual when Chris was hung over. "No, sorry. Really. Just, I just woke up. So, um, what's up?"

"Well, I just wanted to say that. That, um. I love you, and stuff. And Lance, too. And I wondered if you could bring me back some cheese."

Chris blinked. He looked at the phone again. Maybe it gave off some kind of a French vibe. Maybe Lance had bought it at the airport when Chris was trying to teach himself to read French at one of the vending machines. "How did you--"

"Just a little Tomme de Savoie, maybe. And if you go to la Tour d'Argent, can I have your cards? I collect those."

"JC, I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"And hey, I was talking to Joey last night? And he said you should go to the cathedral at Senlis if you guys get a chance, because the gargoyles are cool, and Kelly went last year and brought back some amazing pictures. He's going to email them to Lance. Lance brought his laptop, right? It's about an hour out of the city, and if you go, take some pictures for me."

"You collect pictures of cathedrals now?"

"No, Chris, geez." JC laughed. "I just want to kind of live it with you guys. We haven't hung out much lately. And it's not a big touristy thing, so, you know, probably nobody would blow your cover. Y'all could just chill for a while and soak up the atmosphere."

"Well," Chris said, and stopped. He wanted really badly to say something mean about time-consuming solo careers, but he just couldn't do it. He sighed. "Okay. I don't have a camera, but I'd bet my house that Lance does."

"His is probably digital," JC said, and Chris could hear the grin. He looked down at Lance, who was sleeping with one hand tucked under his chin and his face pressed into the back of the sofa, and grinned back.

"Okay, JC." Chris shook his head to clear it a little, and stood up. His knees creaked alarmingly. "I'm gonna go throw up now. You go sleep or something, what time is it there?"

"How would I know?" JC said, laughing, and hung up.

On the tiny screen of Lance's phone, a tiny little envelope that hadn't been there before was blinking steadily. Chris pushed the button under it and waited through a few rings. When a pleasant, non-descript voice asked for his password, he thought about it for a second, then punched in 3-24-98. A few seconds after that, Justin started talking.

"Chris, man. I just heard. It's so cool. I don't even believe it. What was that shit you were talkin' before, huh? You can't even tell your best friend when like, the most important thing ever happens to you? I thought you were on something, and then JC calls me and tells me everything. All I gotta say is, when you get back here, dude, we're having some words. Okay, that, and for serious, man. Congratulations. Don't worry about anything, cause we're all completely with you on this, okay? However you guys wanna play it. I love you both so fucking much I can't stand it. And shit, okay, I'm hanging up, I'm gonna cry. And I still have to call Joey. Tell Lance I love him, yo. Fuck."

Chris turned the phone off, and closed the flip screen carefully. He felt dizzy. He went into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, just in case he needed it, but after a minute the dizziness faded and the mad took over. He brushed his teeth maliciously with a toothbrush he found still in the wrapper in Lance's shaving kit and when he was done he was still mad. He wanted a shower and he wanted some answers and from the look of the bathroom he wasn't getting either of those things in here.

He stomped out into the living room and kicked the leg of the futon. Lance nearly flew into a sitting position, his eyes darting around the room wildly before they landed on Chris.

"What the hell!"

"That is what _I_ would like to know, Lance. What the _hell_. Have you been calling the guys behind my back?"

"What? No! Why would I?"

Chris threw himself onto the futon beside Lance and growled with frustration. "I have no idea. But somebody's been talking, and it's not me. I mean. Okay, it is me, but I haven't said anything about. Fuck, Lance, they _know_ stuff."

"Stuff like what?"

"Like where we are, and who we're with, and." Chris shifted a little and looked away. "Stuff. I think this place might be bugged."

Lance watched Chris warily. "Okay, look. Maybe it's not as bad as you think. I mean, they're not psychic or anything. Maybe you just heard something and interpreted it as--"

"Listen to your voice mail." Chris felt his face reddening, but thrust the phone into Lance's hands and stood up. He walked over to the window and thought about feeding JC, Justin and Joey to his suitcase as a blood sacrifice to the dread god of luggage.

When he heard the phone click shut, he turned back. Lance's face was pale and his eyes were --

Chris swallowed. His eyes were pretty fucking scary.

"So. I don't think I misinterpreted that, do you?"

"No," Lance said calmly. He stood up and stretched his legs. "But I have a theory."

"Which would be...?"

"I'm gonna go brush my teeth." Lance grinned crookedly, and even mad as he was, Chris grinned back. "Decide where you want to go today, and I'll be out in a minute, and I'll tell you all about the J's mystical powers."

"JC says we have to go to the Tour d'Argent."

"Tourists. We'd get recognized."

"Yeah, maybe. But he wants us to get him some kind of card."

"They count the ducks they serve. Trust JC to want to commemorate the sad fate of our dinner."

"That's gruesome." Chris shook his head. "Let's just smuggle him some cheese."

* * *

There was a shower. Chris had mistaken it for a closet, but there was a tiny room with a sink in it and something that looked like a shower. Part of the wall had been pulled apart and a bracket and hose extension for a shower head had been drilled into the wall. He did the best he could with the bar of soap on the sink and then changed into some of Lance's clothes. The green sweater was a little too big for him in the shoulders, and he had to keep pushing the sleeves up. He only paused for a second before putting on a pair of Lance's spare boxers, which was more than he would have paused a year ago and which made him feel like a complete wuss. The jeans were a tiny bit too tight for him in the waist; the socks fit perfectly. He padded out into the living room to look for his shoes.

Lance was already there, on the phone. He was speaking very quickly, in French; Chris tuned him out and angled into the kitchen for the coffee he could have smelled three blocks away. Not for the first time, he was glad he'd made this trip with Lance. Lance knew coffee. Lance could make coffee sit up and bark.

When he came back out with two full mugs, Lance was just snapping the phone shut.

"Did you know there was a washing machine in there?"

Lance nodded. He took one of the mugs, blew into it, and grinned at Chris. "So?"

"So, there's no dryer. Do French people just wander around wet?"

"French people hang their clothes to dry. Ok, a lot of them do. Some stuff in the world actually happens without electricity, Chris."

Chris rolled his eyes and sat down next to Lance. "Like you wouldn't rip my arm off if I tried to separate you from your palm pilot. So, did you sweep for bugs or anything?"

"I made some calls."

"And?"

"And, mystery solved." Lance smiled and ruffled Chris's hair. "I need to wash up before breakfast." He set his coffee down and disappeared into the closet with the shower.

Chris drank his coffee and waited. There was no TV. So far he hadn't even seen a radio. Lance's newspaper from the day before was folded and placed neatly at the center of the coffee table and would probably have been very entertaining and informative if it hadn't been in French.

Chris felt cut off from the world. He felt kidnapped, actually. Carted off to foreign lands. Maybe Lance planned to sell him into white slavery and live happily ever after in Paris off the proceeds. He wondered about France's policies with regard to extradition.

Lance came out of the shower whistling. His hair was damp and spiked without any gel, and Chris couldn't help noticing that Lance's jeans fit Lance just fine. He had on a rusty-brown sweater shot through with gold thread; Chris didn't recognize it, but hoped to see a lot of it in the future. He watched Lance tie on a pair of sneakers and before he'd thought about it, he was standing beside him, running his fingers slowly through Lance's hair.

Lance looked up, his mouth curved into a smile so sweet Chris had to touch it. He stroked Lance's full lower lip -- warm, soft -- and down over the morning bristle of his chin, down his throat, and Lance stopped his hand there, tangling their fingers together.

"We're not gonna make it out of here." Lance's voice was so low Chris could barely hear it. "You keep doing that --"

"You're fucking gorgeous in the morning, Bass."

"Have you seen you today? Jesus."

Chris caught his breath and pulled his hand away. He remembered vaguely that breathing was supposed to have a rhythm to it, but he couldn't pick up the beat. His heart felt funny in his chest, tight and weird, and he didn't know what he was doing.

He sure as hell didn't know what Lance was doing. "What the hell is going on?"

"Um." Lance stood up, took a step closer. "Well, I thought we would. You know, kiss some more. Maybe."

"Do you even _like_ me?"

"Why would I be trying to kiss you if I didn't like you?"

"'Cause your space thing tanked and now you can't get chicks."

Lance's eyes narrowed. "Okay, first? I'm going in April. You know I'm going in April. And if I don't go in April, I'll go in October, and if I don't go in October --"

"Yeah, yeah." Chris fell back onto the sofa and sighed. "I know. Sorry."

"And second, I could walk out this door and have a whole busload of--"

"Okay! Geez!" Chris covered his ears with his hands and groaned. "Shut up, I'm sorry already!"

Lance huffed out a breath and glared at Chris some more. "I can't believe you think I don't like you."

"I know you don't like me. I have a not inconsiderable amount of experience with people not liking me and I know it when I see it. You tried to like me for about three weeks and then pretended you liked me for two years, and don't think I didn't appreciate the effort. But seriously, man, I liked _you_ a lot better once you dropped the act."

"Ok, everything you just said is totally wrong."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"I was there!"

"_I_ was there!" Lance frowned. "Okay, just wait. Maybe I had to pretend I liked you at first, but that was just for a little while. After that I had to pretend I didn't. Love you." Lance swallowed hard. "Like you. A lot."

"That's what you--" Chris forgot what he'd been planning to say. "What did you --. I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"Look, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. This...is this some kind of self-esteem thing? Because we can --"

"No!" Chris glared. He folded his arms over his chest. "I don't think _nobody_ likes me. I think you, in particular, don't like me."

"Well, I think you, in particular, are on crack. Because I do like you. Ask anybody."

"Okay. Gimme your cell, I'll call Joey."

Lance flushed bright red. "Okay, maybe ask anybody but Joey."

"Ask anybody but your best friend if you like me? Ask anybody but the guy who knows you better than anybody on the planet?"

"Look, Joey's like. He's like my diary. I tell Joey things, sometimes, in the heat of the moment, that wouldn't necessarily make him think -- that might possibly make him think things that are not really the case. So Joey's interpretation, it might be... look. The things I tell Joey are not necessarily representative of--"

Chris laughed, with an edge to it. "I rest my case."

"You don't have a case! You know, fuck you, Chris, because I've had a thing for you for years and you've just been too fucking self-absorbed to notice. I've been tagging around after you since Germany like, like Lassie or something."

"Lassie was a bitch" was probably not the best thing for Chris to have said at that moment, but it was out and then Lance was right there, inches from his face, breathing sweet-sharp coffee breath onto his lips.

"Do I look like a girl to you?"

Chris closed his eyes and tried to swallow. "Well, in certain kinds of light--"

Of course Lance kissed him. Chris knew he would. It was a relief to let it happen; to run his hands up under the loose sleeves of Lance's sweater and curl his fingers around hard, warm muscle. He pulled Lance close and Lance didn't stop him; turned, and pressed Lance back against the wall. It lasted until Chris had to breathe, and he pulled away, panting, still holding on. He wasn't letting go this time.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Chris said, breath sharp and painful in his chest. "Fuck, Lance. You've been bitching at me for years, I thought -- I would've--"

Lance kissed him again, quick and sharp, shutting him up. "I was raised in Clinton, Mississippi by Diane Bass. It can't honestly come as a shock to you that I had some issues to work through."

"I could learn to hate your provincial upbringing."

"I can't even say fuck without worrying that I'm making Jesus cry."

Chris blinked. "You say fuck a lot."

"Yeah, well." Lance laughed softly, ducking his head. "I worry a lot."

"If just saying it makes him cry, he's gonna be freakin' hysterical when we--"

Lance turned red and clapped a hand over Chris's mouth. Chris grinned into it, and wrapped an arm around Lance's waist.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Chris made an annoyed sound through his lips, and Lance removed his hand.

"I didn't think I had a shot, I told you. Besides, most of the time I thought you were pissed at me."

"Most of the time I was," Lance said, grinning. "You're pretty annoying."

"See? Just like that! What was I supposed to think?"

Lance wrapped his arms around Chris and mumbled something soft into his shoulder.

"What?"

Lance squeezed tighter. "I like annoying."

* * *

Chris would have been happy on the sofa, which had some pretty cheerful associations for him now, but Lance pulled on his arm and kissed him and then they were in the bedroom, morning light pouring in through the tall, tall windows.

He stroked down Lance's arm to his fingers, and held on. Fresh and clean and golden in the sunlight, Lance looked more than ever like something Chris was never supposed to have. "You're sure you like me?"

Lance's smile got wider, warmer. He stepped close and brushed his cheek against Chris's, slow and soft. "I can't believe you're here."

It was different, being able to touch. Chris still felt like there was a barrier, something not-right to push through before his fingers could slide down over Lance's shoulder. He could smell the mint toothpaste on Lance's breath, he was that close, but it didn't seem real. He'd spent too long remembering not to reach out; it was hard to do it now, so hard he started to wonder if it were even possible.

Lance made it possible. Lance could do anything he needed to do, and it was looking like what Lance needed to do right now was kiss Chris stupid.

He was good at it. He slid their bodies together, hands fisted in the hem of Chris's sweater, and nuzzled sweetly at Chris's lips until they opened. Until Chris made a sound he wasn't sure he'd ever made before and grabbed at Lance's shoulders just to stay upright. He didn't do anything else, couldn't move, until his hands registered the trembling under them and tightened.

He pulled back. "Lance?"

"Sorry." Lance took a deep, shuddery breath and let it out slow. "I just...I _really_ can't believe you're here."

"It's just, you know. Me. Nothing scary here. Boring old Chris." He waved a hand at himself to indicate boringness and oldness and non-scariness. "See?"

Lance laughed, shaky and weak. "Yeah."

"Hey." Chris made Lance look at him, all green eyes and nerves, and frowned. Seeing Lance freaking out was seriously freaking Chris out himself. It wasn't the natural order of things. "Okay, um. Maybe I haven't really said this yet."

"What?"

"I can't say it without--"

"Just say it. You're making me really nervous. I don't like it."

"Yeah, well, it's not a real picnic from this side, either." Chris calmed his breathing and counted back from ten. "Okay, I. Fuck. Okay. I missed you like crazy when you were off in Russia, and this whole thing, this thinking you're really hot thing, it's not really new. And you've got all this drive and passion and I think that's really cool. You don't ever do anything halfway and you don't take any shit from anybody. So, yeah. I kind of adore you." Chris bit his lip and looked down at Lance's chest. "Maybe."

When he snuck a glance up, Lance looked stunned. "Chris..."

"Look, I just didn't want you to think I would do this without -- if it didn't -- if _I_ didn't mean something by it. I mean, I don't sleep with people who don't like me, you know that, or should by now, but I also don't sleep with people I don't like, at least a little. And I like you. Really, a lot."

Lance stepped back and pulled his sweater off. When his head came free he was flushed, eyes bright and hot. He nodded at Chris and threw the sweater into a corner. "Your turn."

Chris blinked. "What, I don't get a declaration? I bared my soul for you, you jerk."

"Right." Lance pushed Chris's sweater up until Chris started helping. Annoyed, but definitely behind the idea of mutual nakedness. "You're cute," Lance said. He walked Chris back toward the bed next to the wall. "You're crazy. You love everybody." He kissed Chris softly on the mouth, edged him back onto the bed, and slid down next to him. "You went through hell to get where you are now and you can still crack me up, Chris, that's so weird and I have so much respect for that, and--"

"Okay," Chris said, beaming. "That's good. Sex now."

Lance laughed and Chris hauled him into his arms and if kissing on planes and drunk on lumpy futon sofas was good, kissing half-naked and sober on an honest-to-god bed was Chris's idea of heaven.

* * *

"I love you."

Lance moaned something unintelligible from the vicinity of Chris's chest.

"No, I don't think you get it, Lance. I love you. I seriously love you. If Shakespeare had written about how much I love you, he might've ended up really famous."

"I know." Lance kissed Chris right above his belly button, and flopped over onto his back. "Please shut up now. I'm dying."

Chris let Lance breathe for a minute. Breathing was very important. If Lance couldn't breathe, he couldn't regain his strength. So they could do that again. All of it.

Possibly in exactly that order.

"Lance?" No answer. Chris ran a finger lightly up Lance's side and whispered in his ear. "Laaannnce...Laaann-sten...wake up!"

Lance made a strangled noise, shifted an inch, then liquefied. "Chris, I beg you. You've killed me. Let my bones rest in peace."

"I'm just saying. I felt you should know. I don't think Jesus is very happy with you right -- ow! Mmmmph."

Chris grinned happily and wriggled around under Lance until he could breathe. He was totally not dead, the little liar.

* * *

The sun was a lot brighter in the sky, and they'd both slept a little, and Lance had made one foray out into the kitchen for wine and cheese "cause I got nothing left, Kirkpatrick, you drained me, you fucking vampire." Chris himself had gone out once for a wet washcloth and some dry towels.

The bed was never going to be the same. Chris hadn't liked it much anyway.

Chris was on his back, his right leg thrown over Lance's left. Lance's hand was on Chris's chest, rubbing softly.

"I don't think your mom's gonna be very happy with us either," Chris said, smiling softly.

"What? Oh --" Lance slapped him lightly. "Shut up. I'm not lying here naked with you if you're gonna keep talking about Jesus and my mom. Besides, it's not like we're breaking any laws. I'm a big boy now."

"I'm not worried about getting arrested." Chris turned over and wrapped himself around Lance. "I'm a little worried about getting killed. Have you met your mother?"

"My mother thinks you hung the moon." Lance sighed. "And can we _please_ change the subject?"

"Okay, okay, geez. Sorry. What do you want to talk about, darling?"

Lance hit him again, but Chris figured he deserved it. It was turning out to be a very abusive relationship. Later, he'd call Justin and complain. A lot later. When he could be sure to get the grin out of his voice. After a minute, Chris leaned up and kissed Lance on the mouth.

"I've decided that I believe you." He smiled down into Lance's eyes, green green green pretty eyes, and hugged him.

"Yeah?"

"You totally like me, Bass. Seriously."

"God, you're such a dork."

Chris sighed. He almost hoped Justin did break up the band. Then there'd be no studio time, no next tour, they could just stay in bed forever, or until the cheese ran out, which would probably be sometime after Justin's second album went platinum.

"I don't think I'm really mad at the J's anymore," Chris said mournfully. "Dude, you totally killed my foul temper."

Lance chuckled. Chris could feel it rumbling against his cheek, shaking in the arms that tightened around him. "I don't think that's very likely, do y-- Oh, hell."

The phone was ringing, from somewhere on the floor. Chris flailed for it. "I wonder which one it is now."

"I don't care." Lance rolled over onto Chris and pinned him down. "We're not getting it."

"But it could be important!"

"I don't care." Lance licked Chris's throat delicately, and suckled at a spot just beneath his jaw. "We're not getting it."

"But--"

Lance groaned and rolled away. He dug the phone out of the pile of their clothes and tossed it to Chris. "You wanna talk to him, you answer it. I'm just fine right here."

Chris checked the display, and opened the phone. "Hey, Joey."

A confused silence filled the line. Then, "How did you know it was me? I called from Justin's phone."

"I have special powers."

"Yeah? Whoa. Cool."

Chris rolled his eyes. "It was your _turn_, dude. What do you want? Isn't it like freak-ass early in New York right now?"

"I just talked to Justin and he says you guys did the deed! I just wanted to say, first, why didn't I ever think of getting laid by somebody in the band? and second, I love you both like my own children and bestow my blessings upon you."

"Thank you, Father Fatone. I would imagine you didn't think of it because you were getting it regular elsewhere, and we love you too, and we're not bringing you any cheese or going to any cathedrals. We're staying right here in bed, thanks."

"Damn straight," Lance muttered, and edged in a little closer.

Chris covered the phone with one hand and hissed, "Okay, I _really_ don't think I hate them anymore. They're being really cool!"

"Shhh." Lance kissed his fingers, then patted his hand. "I know, but he'll hear you."

"Yeah, but--"

"Chris? Hello?"

"Yeah, sorry, Joe, I'm here. What?"

"Hey, I just wanted to know the color scheme of your apartment. I was gonna send you a present or something. JC said you guys didn't have any blankets."

Chris frowned. He nudged Lance, and sat up. "How did you know we were in an apartment? How," he hissed, "did you know about our _blankets_?"

"Oh, well, that." Joey coughed. "Do you guys like down, or fiber?"

Chris hung up. "Okay, Lance, tell me your theory. Because either they're fucking telepathic, or--"

Lance took the phone away from him. "Watch this." He hit two numbers -- speed dial -- and waited.

Behind the wall, not a foot from Chris's head, a cell phone started to ring.

Chris sucked in a breath. "Fucking hell."

"Yup."

"The guys had us tailed. Our friends. Our _brothers_."

"Yup." Lance closed the phone before anybody answered. "By Lonnie, definitely. Probably Mike."

"Bastards," Chris breathed. "So much for discretion. So much for doing their jobs. Okay, we're firing them."

"Nope."

Chris glared. "No?! They ratted us out! They called the wrath of the J's down on us! They're evil! We gotta destroy them, Lance. With like, fire, and lightning from the sky."

"Technically, they called the goodwill and presents of the J's down on us. Besides, I have a better plan."

"What?" Chris folded his arms and sulked. "You wanna cut back their hours? Put a note in their files?"

Lance pulled at Chris's arms until he could slide back in between them. "They can't go home till we go home, right?"

"So?"

"So." Lance licked at Chris's shoulder, then bit down. Chris whimpered softly and melted down onto the bed. "We stay. For, like. A really long time. Not just Christmas." Lance hid his face in Chris's chest. "Wouldn't that be mean?"

Chris frowned. He levered himself up on one elbow and eyed Lance carefully. "Okay, just tell it to me straight, Bass. We didn't run away from home, did we."

Lance grinned -- and blushed, yeah, but not so much that it looked like he felt anything like, say, guilt. "Nope."

"We eloped."

Lance nodded again. The grin, if anything, got bigger. "Yup."

Chris rolled over and yelled into the mattress. When he came up for air, he tried as hard as he could to look mad. He even growled a little, but he was pretty sure the grin gave him away. He was starting to like Paris.

He could probably even get used to New Zealand.


End file.
